All the Angels and Saints

By Ray Roush

A grieving father blames the Catholic Church for the death of his daughter, a nun, who is killed while doing mission work in Guatemala. He sues the Church, and the struggle begins: faith and guilt clash with politics and grief as the father seeks accountability from the Church.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Roush
• Release date: Jul 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452465555

Ray Roush

I grew up an Air Force brat, and lived in Louisiana for many years, most recently in St. Tammany Parish, where this story took root. All the Angels and Saints was published in 2006 in hardcover under my pen name, r. r. bryan. At the urging of my good friend and fellow writer, Eric Wilder, I am re-publishing the novel through SmashWords, in hopes that the intriguing story of Mac, Elizabeth, and Nicole McHenry will reach a larger audience through electronic media. Hope you enjoy the book; if you do, please let me know at www.rrbryan.com.

Book preview

Saints reads with such truth, it is difficult to remember that this is only a novel . . . just a story conceived in a writer's mind.

—Tulsa World

Atmospheric and thought-provoking.

—Eric Wilder, author of Big Easy

There is a rising star in the literary field.

—Daily Oklahoman

All the Angels and Saints

By r. r. bryan

© 2002 Raymond B. Roush

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

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Prologue

The robed man sat motionless in the faded light, hoping the wait would end soon. His back ached, a victim of the granite bench crafted centuries earlier by a nameless artisan. He whispered another prayer for strength, and guidance. The grumbling in his lower stomach boomed like rolling thunder as it reverberated off the marble walls and floor. He smiled cautiously at the natural indiscretion, not daring to rise, fearful a crackling vertebrae would resonate into the next week. Quiet was observed at all cost in the late hours in the Vatican.

Father Luigi Giuseppe Vincenzo investigated the lives of sainthood candidates. His colleagues called him the saint-maker. The Pontiff had acted favorably on more of Father Luigi’s findings than those of any other investigator assigned to the Congregation for the Causes for Saints. Twice the priest had made confession on his vanity; a third loomed ominously. But penance for a venial sin was not what had the priest worried. This young nun whose life and untimely death he had chronicled into the manuscript—the positio—he held so tightly, this one deserved special treatment.

Saints … the static electricity by which the vestments of faith cling to the souls of the faithful, those special heroes, martyrs, miracle-workers, selfless caretakers of the sickly, deserving of veneration by his faith, his church: the Holy Roman Catholic Church … Father Luigi’s raison d’etre.

The massive oak door opened wide enough for the rapier of light to pierce its way to his feet. Not a word was spoken. The saint-maker rose, grateful for the relief to his back, thankful for the awaiting audience.

Only the hollow echo of slippered feet gliding across the emptiest of hallways remained when he was gone.

Book One

1.

He caught himself staring at the reflection in the mirror, first at the age spots and protruding bluish ridges on the backs of his hands—subtle reminders of his own mortality—then at the sunken eyes, and the dark circles unflatteringly framing them. The hands trembled slightly as J. Bradley McHenry fought to focus on the matter at hand, the simple act of tying his necktie, which after three tries was still not right. Too short again. He exhaled deeply, and concentrated on the fourth attempt. There was no more time for this trivial effort that had him so tied in knots of a different kind.

Hold it together, Mac. He admired self-control in others, and loosely counted the virtue as one of his own. He didn’t consider himself particularly virtuous, although he’d cut way back on the alcohol and profanity. He’d never smoked. And in all their twenty-seven years together he’d remained steadfastly faithful to his beloved wife Elizabeth. Not an unimpressive short list, but at the moment self-control and patience were struggling for survival.

Using his breathing thing, as he called the relaxation technique Elizabeth had schooled him in, the fifty-two year old lawyer coaxed the stubborn necktie into a nicely done half-Windsor. He wondered why all the fuss, until he remembered the day’s agenda. If it were only an opening statement to the jury, or arguing a motion before the court, he could count on years of experience for help. He faced the unfamiliar today … this get-together he’d devised … this Celebration. The broth in which he now simmered was of his own making.

Mac forced away thoughts of what lay ahead. Right now he needed something positive to regain confidence and purpose. He looked again at the tie that now hung so splendidly, and allowed a brief, faint smile. Sunlight squeezed through the louvers of the Plantation shutters, suffusing the spacious master bedroom with its brilliance, suspending a billion motes in mid-pirouette, casting the man in the mirror in a different light. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult for him after all.

A quiet tapping broke the silence. Turning to the door, he smiled broadly at his twenty-two year old son, William Christian McHenry. At six feet two, the azure-eyed Chris was calendar material in his navy blazer, tan slacks, and club tie, despite the unpressed shirt and unshined shoes. Mac wouldn’t be critical of the shirt and shoes, not today anyway.

You and Mom wanted Danny and me ready early. We’ve been waiting downstairs. Chris flashed the devilish grin that had been his trademark since parturition, showcasing the dimples ... his way of amping up the charm. Hey, where is Mom?

Mac checked the bathroom and walk-in closet. Nothing.

Well, son, I don’t know. She was here a minute ago, while I was engaged in mortal combat with my tie. He paused to consider options. You and Danny check downstairs, and I’ll take upstairs.

Chris gave a thumb’s up. I’ll check outside, too. It’s azalea time, you know.

Good idea, he said, putting on his suit coat. He took a last glance in the full-length antique brass mirror he and Elizabeth had hard-traded a French Quarter dealer out of years ago, when finances were leaner, before their lives had taken on a nice middle-age comfort. He took a quiet, deep breath, held it momentarily, and slowly exhaled—his breathing thing again. He needed all the strength he could manage.

The tie won, Chris said as he was closing the door.

Mac turned to an empty room. He cocked his head to the side, shrugging as he looked down at what he considered a fair result—there’d be no fifth try—and left to find his wife.

He scaled the stairs two at a time, pausing momentarily at the upstairs landing. He ignored the boys’ closed bedroom doors to his left, heading down the hallway in the other direction, passing the gallery of pictures that decorated the hallway wall—the McHenry family’s wall of fame. He barely slowed as he walked past the multitude of framed snapshots that memorialized their children’s growing years, those reminders of first steps, first birthdays, first Christmases, first days of school, first Holy Communions, first proms. Everything so carefully arranged by Elizabeth. He knew them by heart. But he was on a mission, and resisted the temptation to stall before one or two that this day were a little more meaningful than the others. He continued on past the game room, to where the hallway ended. Where he knew she waited.

Other than the mild case of nerves, and the struggle with his tie, it had been a good morning so far. Opening the door, he hoped it would stay that way.

He would be disappointed.

2.

Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed. The semi-darkness of their daughter’s room did not hide her look of despair, or the wetness on her cheeks. She wore a sleeveless taupe linen dress, chosen no doubt more for comfort than fashion. The dress’s understated elegance complemented her trim frame. Despite the sadness radiating from his wife, she was as alluring as ever. At forty-eight she still looked like the young coed she was when they first met.

He moved silently close by, allowing her this last moment alone. He groped for the right words.

Honey, he whispered, if you’re ready, we really do need to go. Seconds ticked off with no reply, no visible reaction.

It’s time, Elizabeth. Please.

Elizabeth Anne Rogers McHenry looked up from her lap, where her gaze had been fixed on a small object around which her hands were delicately cupped. Puffy lids and pinkish eyes said everything. The ache in Mac’s heart returned. He suppressed the urge to raise his voice.

You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you? Swallowing to clear the rising lump, he continued. You know this won’t mean as much if you’re not there.

He brushed her soft hair with his lips, and gently put a hand on her shoulder. I love you, Elizabeth.

She covered his hand with hers. I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m all right, I really am. Better now than in a long time, in fact. I just can’t go with you today. Last night, I thought I could. Her eyes searched his for acceptance, forgiveness. Maybe if I had more time. But I know it needs to be done now; it can’t wait, for all the right reasons. I need you and the boys to go on without me. Her voice trailed off.

There was no fight left in him. Arguing with her would prove useless. He squeezed her shoulder a second time, then turned to leave. He didn’t look back and she didn’t look up. He stopped in the doorway. You know where we’ll be, if you change your mind. She only nodded. He pulled the door halfway shut behind him.

Head bowed, he trudged back down the hallway, his thoughts on the small, sterling silver frame in his wife’s lap. Nicole’s first-grade school photo ... a favorite of Elizabeth’s. His chest tightened and the burning sensation in his throat was back. No, you can’t ... you’ve got to hold up, stay in control. Blinking at the forming wetness, he swallowed hard, and headed back down the stairs, wondering all the way if it would ever end.

* * * * *

Where’s Danny? Mac asked Chris as he entered the den. I thought you were both ready.

Uh, Pop, did I misunderstand you, or did you just ask me if I found Mom? Chris followed the glib response with another flash of the captivating grin. Which, by the way, I didn’t, he said, answering his own question matter-of-factly. And I don’t know where my brother is, he wasn’t here when I came in a minute ago.

I’m sorry, I guess I’m not thinking too clearly. Mom’s upstairs, in Nicole’s room. She’s not ready right now, but might come later. Inwardly he chided himself for the white lie.

There was a resonant clarity in his father’s voice that told Chris it was time to let up, to stop the foolishness. He nodded, the grin no longer visible. Actually, I saw Danny heading upstairs a few minutes ago. I think I heard him say he’d left something in his room. I’m surprised you didn’t pass him in the hall.

Well, I didn’t see him, and we still need to go, muttered Mac, more from exasperation than irritation. He paced the room, pausing in front of the large picture window to admire Elizabeth’s many splendidly-colored azalea bushes, brought to bloom by the early and plentiful spring rains. Mac turned to Chris. Would you please run upstairs and tell your brother that we have to leave. I do not want to hit that festival traffic. Grabbing his keys from the parson’s table just outside the kitchen, he headed toward the door to the garage. I’ll be in the Lincoln.

Moments later, the air conditioner on its highest setting, Mac was fuming. Where are those boys? As he grabbed for the door handle, Danny—twenty-six year old Lieutenant Daniel Earl McHenry, Marine aviator—stepped out of the back door. Resplendent in his full military dress blues, white belt and gloves, he half walked, half marched the short distance to the waiting car.

My God, what a sight! Forgetting the lateness, Mac allowed himself to relax, and admire what he felt would make any father proud. At a shade over six feet one, weighing in at one hundred eighty-two lean pounds, his older son approached the car with the wide and confident Pepsodent smile that suddenly appeared when the braces came off at fifteen.

He opened the rear door. Hi, Dad, Danny said, removing his cover—Mac had learned cover is Marine for cap—as he glided into the back seat.

Mac answered with a Hi of his own, adding, Son, you’ve never looked more handsome. It means so much to us that you could make it home this weekend. Mac stopped, and took a deep breath. Mom’s not coming with us right now. I think she’ll come later, though. After she’s had a little more time to sort through a few things. He silently hoped he hadn’t just told his second white lie of the day.

Danny hesitated an instant. It’s okay, Dad. She’ll be there with us anyway, in spirit. Besides, like you said, she might surprise us. The day’s young.

Mac nodded. The unspoken respect flowed both ways as his son nodded in return. Mac impatiently sounded the horn. Before frustration could harden to anger, Chris bolted through the back doorway.

You can ride shotgun, Danny said as Chris opened the rear door. I’ll take it on the way home.

You got it, bro’, Chris said, closing one door and opening the other.

Breathe, Mac. He resisted the urge to scold his younger son.

Danny spoke. Did you see Mom?

Mac’s mind was elsewhere, so he didn’t hear the question, or see Chris turn to Danny, an index finger held to his lips signaling this was something they could discuss later, outside their father’s hearing. Nor did he see the Danny’s furtive wink.

Steering the Lincoln down the driveway and into the street, Mac thought of how long it had been since his sons had bickered over such boyish things as who’d ride shotgun. They'd stumbled through those early years of uncertainty, of rivalry for their father’s attention, and of self-doubt and raging hormones, and everything in between, until they emerged one day as if from cocoons, their three-and-a half-year age difference notwithstanding, as best friends. The bond had grown stronger as they’d grown older.

His reminiscing was interrupted by Chris asking how many might be at the Celebration. Your mother and I sent out about forty announcements. Most everyone said they’d come. Some said they’d mentioned it to others we hadn’t thought about, who asked if they could come, too. The conversation ended there.

What a nice gesture. The question was Chris’s way of apologizing for holding them up, to break an awkward silence, calm his father. Mac’s nerves were calming now, no thanks to the tie, the encounter with Elizabeth, the loss of patience with his sons.

He drove down scenic Pinehollow Lane, passing the fairways littered with electric carts whose occupants took such delight in hacking and cursing their way to lower handicaps and greater meaning in their lives. He eased through the guarded entrance of the gated estates that had been their home for eighteen years, heading down the narrow straightaway bordered by a palisade of pines and oaks, their leaf-burdened limbs and branches forming a majestic, if slightly moth-eaten canopy. Splotches of sky peeked through, forming a Rorschach-like mosaic. The splendor ended as the car reached the intersection of Highway 21, thankfully ahead of the festival traffic.

His earlier thoughts returned to this crazy notion he’d conceived of holding a Celebration for his daughter, to tie up loose ends so they could all move on. This would be Mac’s deliverance day.

He realized his thoughts were robbing him of time with his sons. Boys, I’m glad you’re with me. I didn’t want to make this drive alone.

Neither son spoke. The only recognition Mac got for his words of thanks was a firm pat on his shoulder from Danny. There was more than one person in the car with a crowded mind.

The drive continued, into and through the sleepy, quaint village of Madisonville, past the stately live oaks and sycamores, reinforced by the battalion of tall pines that proliferated in this picturesque south Louisiana nook, past the library and the small cemetery with its headstones dating back two hundred years and more, past the family’s church and the already bustling restaurants along the waterfront. The drawbridge closed, they hurried across the Tchefuncte River, already swollen with the first of many watercraft there for the festival. Mac imagined himself mingled with them, at the helm of Nepenthe, his sailboat. Today would have been a good day for a sail ... if it weren’t for this other business at hand.

Mac didn’t know the theme of this festival. Not that he should, but since so much of the commerce of this quiet little river town depended on the numerous festivals it sponsored throughout the year, he reasoned he should pay more attention to such things. He owed at least that much in the name of community spirit. The thought got filed away as something to work on later.

The fifteen-minute drive ended as he turned off the highway and into the Marina entrance to the neighboring subdivision. The security guard signaled her well wishes with hands clasped in prayer position after she waved him through.

Mac wound slowly down the familiar streets, past the stately homes with their Southern Living landscaping, finally passing the grand old mansion. He brought the car to a stop under the mammoth live oak that stood vigilantly near the water’s edge.

Mac and the boys parted ways. His sons headed over to the Tchefuncte. All three McHenry children and their many friends had boated, fished and played since their earliest years in this river.

Boys, don’t wander off, and don’t get carried away with the moment and take one last swing for old times’ sake, Mac bellowed across the greenbelt. He smiled as he caught them rolling their eyes in the same way they had all their lives. His gaze stayed fixed as Chris and Danny started toward the big tree, with its ropes dangling from the gnarled limbs that ideally reached farthest out over the water, until he turned and headed in the opposite direction toward an old, dear friend.

Mac checked his watch. It was slightly more than an hour before the Celebration would begin.

* * * * *

While the carefree Chris went ahead without him, a pensive Danny turned and watched as his father’s deliberate gait took him toward the kindly man who had given first Holy Communion to all three McHenry children, who had stood by through the past year and a half of turmoil with a steady presence, never pushing, now ready to lay healing hands and words on this still open wound. While Danny was not a prayerful man yet, he nonetheless allowed himself a wish, an intention, for this day to be the rendering his father needed. The rendering they all needed.

* * * * *

Hello, Father, Mac said as he neared his friend and pastor of over fifteen years. I thought I’d find you here when I didn’t see your car at the church.

Father Paul Robichaux—Father Paul, or even just Paul to many of his less respectful parishioners, but always, and only, Father to Mac and Elizabeth—was the rector at St. Joseph Catholic Church in tiny Madisonville, Louisiana. The rural parish was usually a four-year rotating assignment the New Orleans Archdiocese used for younger priests who needed to commune with the less gentrified than New Orleans had to offer, and for the older priests headed out to pasture. This particular parish held together in gradual decline over the years almost in spite of itself. That is, until Father Paul arrived.

Taken at once with the charm and scenic beauty of Madisonville, not to mention its two thousand or so colorful and mostly Catholic citizens, Robichaux zealously set about to restore the aging church while expanding the parish infrastructure. From the first, he’d relied heavily on certain parish leaders. Mac McHenry was one such leader. The priest had cultivated his relationship with the lawyer as much as any other congregation member. Elizabeth and Mac donated generously with time and money. It did not take long for the two men to develop a healthy respect for one another, then a deep and abiding friendship. Mac admired the man’s religious spirit, his passion for the salvation of his fellow man, and above all else his humility. In a more secular sense, he also respected the priest’s ability to run the parish business with the precision, thrift and drive of an entrepreneur, which in a sense he was. Mac had long since accepted that St. Joseph parish was richer and more spiritual by his presence. The rift over his daughter was now settled. Familiar feelings had returned.

The smiling priest shook Mac’s hand warmly and firmly. I’m surprised, actually, that I got here before you. I came early to take care of the details, you know, those things nobody seems to think about until it’s too late. The two men averted eye contact to take in the normally pristine greenbelt, now crowded with rows of folding chairs facing a small stage. But I was wrong, he said, swinging his arm in an arc over the panorama. Someone has obviously gotten here first, and been quite busy.

Nodding agreeably, Mac released his grip and turned his eyes toward the rows of chairs. The stage is set, yes, but will all be ready and fine when the show starts?

Not answering, the priest said simply, Come now, Mac, walk toward the river with me. Let’s talk for a while. We have some time.

Robichaux stopped abruptly. Where’s Elizabeth?

Once again Mac chose his words carefully. She’s still debating whether or not this is right for her. I’m betting she comes later. White lie number three, and counting.

Robichaux frowned, and muttered I see as he took Mac’s arm, heading them in the direction of the bulkhead, to a measure of solitude. They made small talk until the first guests arrived. Mac frowned in their direction.

Robichaux spoke. Mac, I know you’re not ready top play host. I’ll leave you here with your thoughts ’til it’s time. I’m good at this, remember?

You know me too well, Father. Thanks. Mac surged with gratitude.

Alone with the better part of an hour to reflect on what had brought this day into being, to prepare for the most difficult delivery of his life, Mac closed his eyes in silent prayer and let his thoughts wander to a time when all had seemed right, and warm, and safe. To a time eighteen months earlier, when no part of him had died inside. To a time when his daughter was still alive.

3.

He awoke abruptly, startled by the movement beside him. The moon’s glow cast the room in a hazy monochrome, the color of the daguerreotypes in his law office. His wife resembled an antique bronze statuette. Elizabeth, are you all right?

Something is wrong. I feel it. Oh, God, Bradley, I am really scared. Since their first meeting she’d called him Bradley, not Mac like everyone else. He’d never argued against it.

She was trembling.

Mac smoothed an assuring hand along his wife’s forearm. How long have you been sitting up like this? The radio alarm by their bed registered four-fifteen.

I don’t know … an hour or two maybe. I didn’t want to wake you. She smiled weakly. I can’t have you thinking I’m a neurotic old wimp.

Mac rubbed his eyes, gaining ground on his torpor. Would you like some tea?

That might help. I’ll get it.

He stopped her. No, you stay in bed. I’ll get it. He rose, and put on his robe. The Chamomile, right? He took her silence as yes.

Headed for the kitchen, Mac’s thoughts were on his wife. He instinctively knew her fright came from concern for her children. Her babies grown and scattered—one son in the military and another struggling with college, a daughter in a foreign land teeming with danger—there were reasons enough to be worried. Fear was something else ... something new altogether.

He flipped on the light, then pulled the box of tea from the pantry. He filled the copper teakettle, lighted the fire and waited for the telltale whistle. It was too early for the Times-Picayune, so to kill the wait he rested his head in his hands, elbows on the counter top, and cleared his thoughts for the day ahead. There were a couple of timber sales contracts to prepare, a will to draw for Arthur and Effie Hebert, and a host of other transactional matters. His bread-and-butter stuff that gave him a break from the constant pressure of trial work. He loved the courtroom, but getting older had slowed him down a bit. He was glad to have the office work as a diversion.

His thoughts returned to Elizabeth. Uncharacteristically, he’d not questioned her obvious fear. In matters affecting family, he and Elizabeth always had engaged in what Mac thought of as spirited debate—their way of fleshing out true feelings. Much of the foundational strength of their marriage was built on this concept. It rarely meant they did not share the same feelings and emotions; it was simply a matter of promoting tempered restraint for the common good, a way of staying in control. In that way they remained a collective clear head.

This was different. Something fierce, something quite powerful had a grip on his wife, and he wasn’t sure how to handle that. His first instinct was to resort to playing the traditional calming role. Truth was, the sheer power of his wife’s fear also had affected him. He could not shake the image of Elizabeth sitting upright in their bed, knees buckled under her chin, hands clasped at her ankles, rocking, gently rocking, murmuring in whispered prayer.

* * * * *

In the darkness outside, approaching the end of the circle drive to the two-story Acadian, the van pulled to a stop, its lights out. The driver, a tall young man in his early twenties, switched off the ignition, and turned to the passenger.

I don’t feel right about this, Elise. This is low even by your standards. The driver was thinking beyond the outright lie his passenger had told the security guard to enter the exclusive, private subdivision without the requisite advance call.

She ignored the slur. It might as well be us, she retorted, the emphasis on us. In a few hours, the whole world will be knocking on this door, and no one will care about who was here second. This could be just the break we’ve needed. This time her emphasis was on we.

The driver shook his head side to side, stopping once the woman seated next to him caught his eye. Oh, Ken, stop it with that pathetic, droopy-eyed Cocker Spaniel look. You’re breaking my heart. You forget, we’re not in a cheery business most of the time. Sometimes tragedy is involved, like this time. Not one to quit even when she thought she was ahead, she added, Do you think if we don’t go up to the door what has happened will somehow not have happened? Or the next group would hesitate to knock on their door?

She bore down harder. Come on, Ken, get over yourself. Daylight will be here soon, and any one of our cutthroat competitors will be able to grab the story off the same wire we did. Think how much better it will be for News Nine when we break the story first.

The driver exited slowly. Walking around to the side of the van, he noticed a downstairs light was on. A surge of hope filled him. Just this once, please, let’s be too late. He opened the side door to the van bearing the oversized 9 on its side, encircled by the words Live and News, and pulled out his equipment. The cameraman was ready.

His passenger was thirty-year-old Elise Miller. The consummate news hound, and frequent object of disdain, she nevertheless enjoyed a sizable following for her probing, investigative and usually intrusive style of telejournalistic reporting. She knew the enormity of the story she would break locally, ahead of the rest of the country. A story large enough to catapult her to one of the national news networks. Any pang of conscience she might share with her cameraman partner of three years would be as quickly forgotten as yesterday’s stale news and bad fast food eaten on the run. Elise would not be thrown off track by the naiveté of her younger and less driven partner.

Well, Ken, are we ready?

He mumbled something resembling yes.

Then let’s start the show.

They covered the two dozen paces to the front door quickly. Poised to ring the doorbell, Elise heard the unmistakable whistle of a teakettle. Sharing no more than a quizzical expression with her associate, she did not hesitate to push on the lighted button that would ring a chime throughout the house at Number 46 Empress Drive, in Tammany West Estates, home to Mr. and Mrs. Mac McHenry.

* * * * *

The whistle jarred Mac from thoughts of his wife and the day he faced at the office. Before he could pull the kettle from the stove the equally familiar sound of the door chime caught his attention. Must be a neighbor. There had been no call from the guard station. He turned off the burner; the tea could wait.

Flipping on the porch light as he opened the door, Mac reflexively jerked his arm upward as a shield. The blinding light came from the direction of a tall man standing behind a woman whose face he vaguely recognized but could not immediately place. Using his hand as a visor, his eyes straining to adjust to the glare, he squinted at the woman. She spoke into a microphone.

Mr. McHenry, I’m Elise Miller, News Nine, and we are here to talk to you about reports of the death of your daughter Nicole—Sister Nicole—reportedly killed in a rebel uprising last night in her Guatemalan village of Refugio. Pausing only to draw another breath, she continued before her stunned greeter could respond.

We know from the wire service reports there were a number of deaths, that she is listed among them. Have you been informed yet by any church officials, or anyone else, of any details surrounding this most devastating tragedy?

The same icy fear that grabbed Elizabeth now strangled Mac. His lips quivered, his cheeks twitched. He groped for words, but all he could think of was how badly he wanted this woman to disappear, to never have appeared. Ten minutes earlier he’d been soundly asleep. How could so much have gone so wrong so quickly?

What—What are you talking about? This is crazy. I don’t have anything to say to you. I need you to leave. The lady started to speak, but Mac cut her off.

I mean now! Get out of here! How dare you come to my house like this! Mac felt the crimson begin to color his cheeks and ears. He pushed the door.

Mr. McHenry, she persisted, her free hand pushing back against the door, we know this must come as a shock to you, but your daughter was internationally prominent. Her miracle last year reached a global audience. We are asking for words to comfort those who will be as saddened by her death as we know you are. Please share with us, so we may in turn share with them. She shoved the microphone within an inch of his lips.

Without another word Mac shut the door in her face. He stayed in the same spot, feet riveted to the floor, trembling uncontrollably, wondering what to do next. He heard the woman’s voice, fading as she berated her associate for cutting off the minicam before she could capture the expression on his face. What kind of person would do this?

He wondered if Elizabeth had heard, and what to tell her if she hadn’t. He had finally placed the newswoman, however, and began to fear what she’d said might have some truth to it. And to pray it didn’t. He walked past the kettle, steam still rising from its spout. Elizabeth’s tea was no longer on his mind as he entered their bedroom.

Who was at the door, Bradley?

Mac knew before he answered his expression had betrayed him. There was no time to prepare for the worst.

Bradley, what is it? Tell me what is going on. She rushed to him, her fingers as vises on his forearms. Oh my God, it’s one of the kids. I knew it. I just knew it. Tell me, Bradley, now.

There was a news crew at the door … Elizabeth, I—I— He averted her stare.

What aren’t you telling me? Not a question, it was a demand for an answer.

Nicole. It’s about Nicole, was all he could manage. Mac felt like a beggar as looked into his wife’s eyes for something—anything—to make a clinking sound in his empty tin cup.

Elizabeth was frozen. He felt her grip on his arms turn clammy. Her mouth barely opened, but no words uttered. Her pleading eyes moved, first to his left eye, then to his right, rapidly back and forth, time and again. He wanted to tell her this was all a horrible mistake. All he could do was lower his head and pull her to him. Her grip relaxed, and she fell slowly into his arms, sucking in air as she simultaneously forced it out, crying out her daughter’s name. He swept the tousled graying hair from her eyes as she softly wept, praying, Oh, God, please no, oh please no, please don’t let this be ...

Elizabeth, we don’t know anything for sure. If there were a problem, the Church would have been here first, to tell us about it. She’s a nun, for God’s sake, one of them.

An idea came to him. I’ll call Father Robichaux. He’ll know what we should do. Elizabeth was regaining some control, able to speak through the staccato sobbing and silent prayers. It was not the full cup he’d have liked, but it was a start.

Mac helped her to the sitting area. When she let go, he reached for the phone to call their pastor. The private line to the rectory rang only once.

Father, this is Mac. He didn’t wait for a reply. Have you heard anything this morning about Nicole? Is she in any danger? A newswoman was just here with an unconfirmed report that, that— He could not complete the thought as he fought to continue. I know it’s early, and I’m sorry for the intrusion. We need you to make a call, wherever you have to. Call and let us know our Nicole is safe. Please. And hurry.

Mac, I’ve heard nothing of this, a steady voice responded. But let me come over. I can be there in a few minutes, then I can call from your home. Whatever it is, I’ll be there to help.

I’ll let the guard know you’re coming.

Mac and Elizabeth waited the eternity it took for their priest to drive the three and a half miles down Highway 21 from the parish rectory to their home. The Community coffee was brewing when he arrived, the aroma of chicory heavy in the air.

4.

Elizabeth, the priest began, Mac’s told me what’s happened, the unfortunate business with your uninvited guests. I’ve heard nothing of such news, I assure you. Let’s see if we can learn something official, what do you say? Something to ease your— He paused, searching for the right word, the politically correct expression. —your concerns.

Mac sat next to his wife at the kitchen table, and watched as she went through the motions of dipping her teabag into the cup of hot water he’d finally poured her. Mac invited the priest to sit with them.

Seated, coffee steaming from the cup in front of him, Robichaux made his call. The stillness ended soon enough. This is Father Paul Robichaux for Monsignor Everett, please.

A short wait later, a terse conversation ended with the priest reminding the more senior official, in an urgent tone, to call as soon as something was known. It was now a few minutes after five, less than an hour before the morning sun would break Lake Pontchartrain’s eastern horizon. The day promised to be another hot, humid one.

Monsignor Everett did not know anything, but will make the calls to find out about Nicole. He’s a seminary classmate, not a particularly close friend, but dependable. He’ll be able to tell us something shortly. Robichaux’s glance alternated between Mac and Elizabeth. The silence seemed endless.

Elizabeth finally spoke. Oh, Father, are you sure there isn’t something we can do?

Nothing except wait for the monsignor’s call. I know how difficult this is, but sometimes waiting is all we can do. He lightly patted her clasped hands.

While Elizabeth and Father Paul struggled to make conversation, Mac left the room, unnoticed, fresh with a thought, surprised the idea had not already occurred to him. He headed for the den and the television set they rarely watched. The cable service subscribed to many years earlier was of little use since their children left home, except for the local news, and the frequent hurricane watches this part of the world mandated.

Mac did not notice Elizabeth and the priest entering the den. Their eyes followed his stunned and horrified gaze, fixed on the screen lighting the darkened room. Nicole’s familiar face showed as an inset in the upper corner of the screen, superimposed on a crudely-configured map of Guatemala. The unseen announcer was telling the viewing audience, in typically unemotional newsvoice, Again, for those of you who may have just tuned in to this special broadcast, we have a confirmed report of the death of Sister Nicole Michelle McHenry. She was killed last night at the hand of rebel insurrectionists in the tiny village of Refugio, located in the north central mountain region of Guatemala. Sister Nicole recently captured the attention of the world with her miracle healing of a young village girl who had fallen victim to a vicious fever. We have few details at this time, other than there are other deaths. The Guatemalan government is claiming the uprising has been quelled. Please stay tuned during the day for more, as we now return to our regular programming.

As the photograph of the slain daughter of Mac and Elizabeth enlarged from its smaller, insert size to cover the full screen, the anonymous announcer concluded, Sister Nicole, twenty-three, Catholic nun, has been confirmed dead. Beneath her image, in tombstone, were the years of her birth and death: 1971 – 1994. A second later the screen was filled with the image of a man in a plaid sport jacket pointing at a new automobile that promised to be the quietest ride ever.

Elizabeth raised her hands to her mouth, then collapsed before either man could react. Mac watched helplessly as his wife’s head struck the corner of an end table, ricocheting onto the wood floor with a resounding thud. He sprang to her side, instantly fearful at the sight of the broken skin above her left temple, the trickle of blood puddling on the glossy parquet tiles.

Help me, Father, Mac ordered, and the two men lifted her to the couch. Her breathing was shallow, but her pulse was strong. Viscous redness seeped into the throw pillow Mac placed under her head.

A minute later, despite Mac’s efforts to revive her, Elizabeth was still unconscious. The bleeding had been slowed by the crude bandana Mac formed from a floursack towel he found in the kitchen. Now was not the time to dwell on the tragic news. His wife needed attention. He lifted her limp body and headed for the front door, again ordering his friend. The Emergency Room at Covington General is closest. Let’s go in your car. They were loaded and gone in one minute.

Mac stroked his wife’s face, brushing the hair back from her ears and eyes. He spoke hushed words of solace and comfort, words imploring her to know everything would be all right, it was all a mistake, Nicole couldn’t be gone, just couldn’t be ….

If he’d looked up, Mac would have seen the driver’s lips barely moving, silently praying the same thing.

An hour later, Elizabeth was resting comfortably in a private room, hooked to an electronic monitor. The machine coldly beeped out red numbers in silent cadence, heart rate first, then blood pressure, systolic over diastolic. Mac stared hypnotically at the medical metronome.

The torture of waiting took its toll. Needing solace, Mac left Elizabeth’s side to stroll the empty corridor of the emergency wing. He met his concerned parish priest in the outer hallway and quickly forgot his craving for solitude. She’s in shock. They’re giving her something intravenously to calm her. It’s a concussion, but the good news is it’s very mild.

Robichaux put his hand on Mac’s shoulder. When might she come around?

We don’t know. It could be any minute, or ... perhaps much longer. I’ve called our friend Barrett Dupuis, over at the Tulane Clinic. He’ll be here in an hour, and will watch over her until she’s ready to go home. However long it takes.

The mixed expression of hope and desperation on Robichaux’s face left Mac hoping for more. The friends parted in different directions without speaking further.

Mac walked on, slowly, windlessly adrift, trying not to succumb to the same fear and grief his wife had. As he had for so many clients in times like this, he must take charge, help facilitate the recovery process.

Years of doing so for others had not prepared him for this test. He was in uncharted water. Worse, he was teetering on the brink of his own physical and emotional collapse. He was certain of the horrible truth from the news bulletin. Further denial was useless. All that remained was official confirmation. Then the details. He would need total clarity of mind, reasoned and measured control. For Mac McHenry, grief would have to wait.

* * * * *

Mac, I’ve heard from Monsignor Everett. The priest’s expression said everything.

What can you tell me, Father? Mac sat in the nearest chair, burying his head in his hands, nervously smoothing back his hair. Why? Oh, dear God, why? His heart pounded. He thought the veins in his neck might explode from the pulsing pressure.

There aren’t many details yet, I’m afraid. There was an uprising in Refugio, and Nicole was somehow caught in the middle of it. The village priest you met when you and Elizabeth visited Nicole last year, Father Art Hurkinen, suffered a bullet wound and a mild heart attack, but he is alive and it looks as if he will recover.

Robichaux sat down beside his friend. Do you want me to go on?

Did she suffer? Was she …?

Mac, I honestly don’t know. I’ve been told only that one of the rebels is responsible. It’s possible he also lived in the village.

How can that be? Those people in her village revered her. It’s just not possible.

The Church has sent investigators to Refugio. I’ve told Monsignor Everett to get word to me as soon as he learns anything more. He won’t hold back, Mac. Whatever the Church learns, you will learn also. I promise you that.

Where is she now? What’s being done with my daughter? He could not bear to say with my daughter’s body.

I don’t know that either. There are still no phones. All we have is a report from Reuters, and it is sketchy at best.

I don’t care what it takes, but you get word to the Church, down there or wherever, that I am coming for my daughter. I don’t want her touched. Do you understand? Not by anyone. I’m going for my daughter.

Robichaux squinted. Mac, this is something the Church is prepared to handle. Why not let us take charge?

Father, as soon as Elizabeth is out of danger, I am flying to Guatemala to bring my daughter home. Now, do you get the word out, or do I? Mac squared his jaw resolutely. He had a point to make, friend or no friend, priest or not.

I’ll take care of it.

Thank you. Mac started to walk off, when Robichaux stopped him.

Mac, I just want to say, the priest began, eyes glistening, I would trade my own life at this instant if it would bring Nicole back, you know I would. I’ve never felt so helpless as a priest.

Shouldering yet another burden Mac left to go call his sons.

* * * * *

Elizabeth came to, restlessly. Mac was at her side. Before she could say anything, Mac had placed his forefinger upon her lips, hushing any excitement. Groggy from the pale yellow liquid dripping into her forearm and rendering her senseless, still in shock, still frightened, she did not quickly calm. But calm she gradually did, as the chemicals continued their slow work on her. Before speaking they reached for each other. Mac and Elizabeth embraced, their separate feelings of panic and disbelief, of acceptance of the inevitable, flowed one to the other and back again in a negative current that drained rather than energized. Mac held his wife tightly, strongly, and did not let up until he felt her relax, and her breathing slow to normal. Then, in the way a parent releases the tenuous grip at a toddler’s first step, Mac relaxed his hold, and allowed Elizabeth to slowly settle back into the fold of her bed, where they might look at each other in this new light, where they could gather their thoughts and feelings before speaking.

Why our Nicole? Elizabeth’s tears returned. Did they hurt her? Did they hurt my baby? You can tell me. Please, I want to know.

Mac dabbed his wife’s tears away with a tissue. He waited before speaking.

We don’t know what happened yet, only that she’s gone. I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I can’t bear telling you this. I have the same questions you do.

The boys ... our boys. We must—

They’ve heard. They’ll be home tomorrow.

She closed her eyes, and pulled his head to her bosom. What are we going to do? How will this nightmare ever end for us? He did not answer ... there was no answer.

Even as they quietly spoke, alone in this darkened, unfamiliar, sterile place, wondering if their daughter suffered in death, or was tortured or brutalized, wondering even more how this had all come to pass, Mac felt a stranger’s presence. It took him a while to realize it, a little longer to define it. For the only time in his life he could remember, Mac felt guilt. In the days to come this marauder would appear randomly, as if it were the fish on the end of his line, tugging, making Mac feel like the cork at the surface, buoying and bobbing, a constant reminder of the man’s failing: You should have saved her. This was all your fault.

The struggle with this new demon lasted until dawn, when out of sheer exhaustion Mac’s chin fell to his chest, and restless sleep overtook him.

* * * * *

Elizabeth was released after a day and a half in the hospital. Mac was there to take her home to grieve. Mac, too, was going home, in a sense. He had remained at Elizabeth’s bedside all he could, leaving only to clean up and nibble on the run. His appetite had all but disappeared. The food friends and neighbors had delivered to their home, in the Southern tradition of showing sympathy, had gone largely untouched.

Mac’s one-man law office had been kept running in his absence by Paulette Sonnier, his secretary of seventeen years. A widow with grown children, she was as devoted to Mac and Elizabeth as they were to her. Through the years the two women’s relationship had grown to a friendship without barrier. Thus it came as no surprise to Elizabeth when Paulette greeted her at the door of her own home. In typically bold fashion Paulette announced she would stay in the downstairs guestroom until Elizabeth was able to cope again. There was no argument.

Mac was thankful his sons were home. Both had demanded information he couldn’t provide. They were all in a vacuum when it came to details of Nicole’s death. Tension mounted within Mac over the elusive explanation the Church had yet to provide. He also noticed tension in his sons, especially in Chris. The usually jovial youngest child appeared to be harboring more than grief. His older brother, schooled in warfare, understandably might have malice on his mind; Mac could handle that in time. Dealing with a problem once it had been defined came easy to the lawyer. This thing with Chris, however, might need some work.

* * * * *

The two clerics were only priests, not ranking members of the archdiocesan hierarchy as Mac would have expected. Arriving unannounced moments after Elizabeth’s return home, they were there to help, if they could, with Nicole’s return. The meeting was brief, and Mac surprisingly and uneasily found himself orchestrating most of it.

Mr. McHenry, the older of the two began, a bit too tactfully, the archdiocese is prepared to bury Sister Nicole in either the cathedral’s private cemetery in Guatemala City, or in one of the archdiocesan cemeteries in New Orleans. He added, We do this for our own.

Mac was mildly offended—who did these interlopers think her family was, anyway?—but let it pass. Feigning politeness while he thanked them for the offer, Mac rejected both alternatives. He told them the family had other plans.

Mr. McHenry, are you certain we cannot be of more help to you? The other priest asked. Those whose lives are lost while in the service of the Church usually provide in their final declarations their wish for the Church to care for them in death. We know your daughter did not leave such a declaration, but have you considered this might have been her wish?

Gentlemen, thank you for dropping by, but the matter has been decided. I thought the Church knew my plans, and frankly believed you’d come here today with details of my daughter’s death. Since you’ve told me you have no details, we really have nothing more to discuss. I am leaving tomorrow morning for Guatemala, and will return with my daughter. She will be buried a few miles from here. You may take some comfort it will be in a largely Catholic cemetery, but it will not be in either of the places you have suggested. Now, that being settled, is there anything else I can do for you? Perhaps some ice water before your trip back?

As he watched them drive off, Mac wondered why they’d come. He’d wanted information, but got none. Two low-ranking priests, and a message of sympathy on his recorder from the archbishop over in New Orleans, that was all. One way or another, with or without the Church’s help, he would learn why his daughter was dead.

Mac McHenry’s arduous journey would begin early the next day. It would continue for a year and a half. Rarely would he travel further than within himself, a distance infinitely beyond the miles separating the borders of America and Guatemala.

5.

As she watched her husband prepare for his trip, Elizabeth allowed herself to take note of the detachment in their lives in the past forty-eight hours. Twenty-seven years together was proof enough she was right about this. She needed, no, craved, the uncompromising strength her husband had never before failed to demonstrate, yet now did not.

She kept this to herself. The unselfishness that was her strong suit did not yield to the losses she now felt, real and imagined, first at the unbearable news of her daughter’s death, next that her husband might be drifting away as well. Lying in their bed, watching him pack, she reached deep for strength. To question him now was ill-advised; the timing was all wrong. It could wait, if still necessary, until his return.

She prayed he wouldn’t be gone long. Something, some inner voice, whispered time was becoming precious to her.

* * * * *

While he packed, Mac made light conversation with his wife. It turned serious when she suggested he take the boys. Elizabeth, he’d explained, the boys asked to come, but I said no. They need to be here, with you. I don’t know what to expect when I get down there. The last thing I want to worry about is losing another child.

The horrified look on Elizabeth’s face made Mac instantly regret what he’d just said. The only comfort he took was it brought an end to any argument on the issue of their sons going with him.

After the packing was done, Mac went over his itinerary with Elizabeth again, exhausting her in the process. They embraced, and said their good-byes then; he would not awaken her in the darkness. They agreed it was better that way.

Elizabeth was asleep in a few moments. Mac made sure the alarm was set before he settled in next to her. Thoughts swirled feverishly within his head. Sleep, if it came this night, would be far from peaceful. Resigned to a restless night, Mac turned his thoughts once again to the woman beside him and how it had begun for them twenty-seven years earlier.

* * * * *

It was the fall of nineteen sixty-eight, his final year at Saint Louis University Law School. Mac’s parents were able to send him a little money now and then, but for his first two years the young man from Des Moines had gotten by largely on grants and scholarships, and working night watchman jobs where he could study long into the night without interruption.

He’d gotten lucky his third year when a job in the student bookstore opened up. It gave Mac the freedom to work around his class schedule. More importantly than a return to a normal sleep pattern, it put Mac in the mainstream of campus life. The day job also resolved to his great personal relief an issue that had worried him all those nights he’d been alone at his watchman’s jobs: he had not become antisocial, as he’d feared. Life had picked up for Mac McHenry, SLU 3L.

He caught himself noticing the female students as they checked out through his counter, his gaze no longer shyly fixed downward. He spoke only cautiously; fear of rejection held him back. Hardly, he mused, a quality for an aspiring trial lawyer to possess. He looked up from the register one day to see a certain tall, pretty brunette. Possessed of porcelain skin, a captivating smile, and the most incredible emerald eyes, he caught himself staring at her. Buoyed by the sparkling eyes and smile that together seemed to crush him with the force of a tidal wave, he gambled.

Didn’t I sell you two pencils just yesterday?

Yes, you did. Her reply rang boldly. And two the day before that. And two more the day before as well. Mac’s puzzled stare and the awkward silence prompted the coed to continue. I was prepared to buy two pencils a day as long as it took for you to notice me.

She held out her hand. I’m Elizabeth Anne Rogers, from Louisville, Kentucky. I’m a junior. Education major.

Mac somehow managed to say his name. I’m Mac, Mac McHenry. Joseph Bradley McHenry, 3L ... third year law. The touch of her hand sent a wave of warmth through him. Her skin was luxurious. His eyelids felt heavy. What was happening here?

She jerked her hand back. Mac doesn’t suit you, she said, her smile vanishing as she headed toward the glass door. You should insist on Bradley. She was out the door before he could say another word.

Immensely attracted to this pretty girl who apparently had thought she’d seen something in him, something that had brought her back under the pretense of needing pencils, of all things, but whose reaction at his only words had been one of aversion, Mac made an impulsive decision. One he would forever be grateful he’d made. He closed his counter twenty minutes early.

She hadn’t gotten far, and seemed genuinely surprised when, short of breath from his sprint, he came up beside her.

Hey, I’m sorry if I—

She cut him off abruptly. You don’t need to apologize. It’s nothing of your doing.

Then why’d you bolt away from me? I don’t understand.

Look, you’re very nice. I was attracted to you the first time I went through your counter. You’re shy, but most of all polite and respectful. Not many here are. That impressed me.

And?

Okay, it’s like this. My father is a lawyer. All our family friends are lawyers. Let’s just say lawyers aren’t my favorite people and leave it. Nothing personal against you, but I’ve seen what being a lawyer does to a man. I’m sorry if this offends you ... I can see by your expression it does.

Surrounded by students demonstrating against the war in Southeast Asia, or casually tossing footballs and Frisbees or hovered around someone playing a guitar and singing a peace song, a lot said already and much more waiting to be said, not wanting to jeopardize any further the already fragile bond between them, Mac stood frozen in their defining moment. He was ill prepared for this, but did what he’d been brought up to do: he spoke from his heart.

"Listen to me, Miss Elizabeth Anne Rogers from Louisville, Kentucky. I don’t know anything about what kind of man or lawyer your father is, or all of the other lawyers you know, and at the moment I don’t much care. I’m more